


Imaginary Numbers

by missmichellebelle



Series: Tropetember [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Dorkiness, Fluff, High School, Humor, M/M, Mathematics, Nerd Mickey, Nerdiness, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, Mickey Milkovich is nothing like Ian thought he might be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imaginary Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> **Tropetember** is a month long event where the goal is to write a fic fulfilling a different trope/AU every day. If there is a specific trope/AU you would like to see, please [drop me an ask on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> I knew approaching the nerd trope that I wanted to do it with Mickey, because I felt like maybe Ian was the more obvious choice (then again, maybe I'm wrong). Plus [Noel in glasses](http://instagram.com/p/qU9KiBqPWk/). *u* Although I generally imagine thick-framed hipster glasses on my nerds.
> 
> I couldn't for the life of me put Mickey in a sweater-vest, though, so I settled with a cardigan. In fact he's really not so much of a nerd as he is a smart guy with a bad mouth and glasses. And a cardigan. That totally equals nerd, right?
> 
> (It was very hard for me to write about not understanding math, because it's never been an issue for me, blah.)
> 
> (Worst title in the history of titles but it's late and I'm tired, more blah.)

“I’m never going to get into college,” Ian groans, head falling back as Mandy snatches the Algebra II test from his limp grasp.

“D+,” she comments, sounding vaguely impressed. “You did better than I’d do.”

“I’m _failing_ the fucking class,” Ian emphasizes. “How am I supposed to get into college if I _fail_ a class?” Ian pinches the bridge of his nose, and then sighs. He knew college was a bit of a long-shot, but he’d thought that maybe if he tried hard enough, he could get _somewhere_. At least he doesn’t need the class to graduate. Then he’d _really_ be fucked.

“What about Lip?” Mandy asks, keeping her voice carefully controlled. “Isn’t he supposed to help you with that shit?”

“I’m sure he would if he was home more. He has midterms, though.” Ian sighs. “Do you think it’s too late to drop out of the class? Maybe I could switch it for something else. Like shop. I probably wouldn’t fail that.”

Mandy rolls her eyes. “You’re not dropping out of the class, Ian, for fuck’s sake. I got one Gallagher into college, I’m going to get the other one, too.” Mandy smiles at him. “You’re my best friend, and you deserve better than all of this.” Even without the way she’s glaring at him in her _don’t fucking challenge me on this_ way, Ian can hear the sincerity in her voice.

He wraps his arm around her shoulder and squeezes her close to his side.

“You do, too, Mands,” he mutters quietly, and she shrugs and looks away. It just makes Ian squeeze a little tighter.

“Fuck, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this—my brother.” Mandy looks at Ian like he should understand exactly what she’s saying.

“What about your brother?” Ian asks in his confusion.

“He’s the biggest fucking math nerd on the planet, and he can totally tutor you.” Mandy looks super proud of herself for having found a solution to Ian’s problem.

“Won’t I have to pay for that?”

“Fuck no. Best friend discount.”

*

Ian’s not sure what he expects of Mandy’s brother. He knows she has several older brothers, but that they’ve all been shuffled around since entering the system years ago after their dad ended up in prison. Mandy always says she’s lucky that they kept her and Mickey together—they were the youngest, and while she ribs on him constantly, she also seems to really admire him.

“First Milkovich to get a high school degree, did you know that?”

Ian hadn’t.

Ian and Mandy have been friends for a few years now, but he’s still never met any of her family members. It’s not that she doesn’t like her foster parents, but she does confide in Ian that she feels like an outsider in that house. So Ian’s never pushed to go over there. Mandy is always welcome at the Gallagher house.

So he has no idea what to imagine. Mandy’s always been a little hard-edged, with colored hair and a nose piercing and a shiv in her back pocket at all times. But Ian gets that—they live in a rough neighborhood, and it tends to turn out rough people.

It’s a Tuesday evening (because it’s the only day and time Ian isn’t working) and he’s sitting at a table in the public library, drumming his pencil against the edge, and waiting, still trying to picture what Mickey Milkovich might look like. Ian wonders if he’s big and intimidating? Or maybe he’s got that whole lithe and graceful thing going for him. Mickey can picture that.

“You Ian Gallagher?”

As it turns out, Mickey Milkovich is nothing like Ian thought he might be.

He has dark hair and blue eyes like Mandy, although their slightly obscured by the thick-framed glasses he’s wearing. He has a buttoned-up cardigan on over a v-neck shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, which is a kind of funny pairing with the slightly too-large pants he’s wearing.

“Uh, yes, hi, that’s me.” Ian wonders if he should stand up—is shaking hands appropriate in this situation?—but Mickey is already pulling out the chair diagonal from him with his foot and taking a seat.

“Mandy tells me you’re having trouble with algebra,” Mickey starts, pulling things out of the backpack he’s brought with him. Ian is still just sort of watching him, taking him in, rectifying this image with the mysterious Mandy’s Brother Figure that Ian has unconsciously been carrying around in his head since he knew Mickey existed.

That’s how he notices the letters on Mickey’s knuckles, but they move too quickly for Ian to make out what they say.

“Gallagher?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Ian blinks back to himself, and looks away from where he’d kind of been staring super intently at Mickey’s hands. Because that’s not fucking weird or anything. Mickey stares at him for a a few long seconds, like he’s waiting for Ian to do something, and Ian doesn’t exactly know _what_.

“Do you have the last test you took?” Mickey enunciates slowly, like he doesn’t think Ian will understand him, and Ian’s eyebrows pinch together. Lip might have been patronizing at times when helping Ian out, but he never made him feel like an _idiot_ (at least, not overtly).

“Yeah.” Ian digs in his own bag and pulls it out, feeling a swell of shame at the bright red D+ slashed across the front. Ian wishes it was an A, because at least then he wouldn’t feel so embarrassed about showing it to someone else—but if it was an A, he wouldn’t even be here in the first place. He slides it with all the speed of a reluctant turtle across the table, and Mickey snatches it up as soon as it’s close enough.

“A D,” Mickey observes, strikingly similar to the way Mandy had a few days before. “Mands wasn’t kidding, you really need some fucking help.” Mickey’s eyes narrow as he flips to the next page of the test. “Shit, are you sure you’re even _taking_ this class?”

Ian’s expression grows darker.

“Yes, I’m fucking taking the class. I just have a hard time with math, all right?” It’s the only subject that Ian really fucking struggles with, although he somehow skates by in science. He’s just not good at remembering all the equations and rules; they don’t make sense to him. Math just _doesn’t_ make sense.

“Clearly,” Mickey murmurs, dryly, and Ian presses his lips together in aggravation. “So where did you wanna start?” Mickey glances over at him, and there’s something about the way he looks over his glasses that makes Ian find him… Kind of ridiculously attractive?

Ian forces his face to stay blank.

“What do you mean?”

Mickey looks like he’s already expended all of their patience, and it hasn’t even been five minutes yet.

“What subjects do you wanna cover? What are you having a hard time understanding? Jesus, ever had a fucking tutor before?”

Ian feels a little smug as he shrugs and replies with a casual, “Not really.”

The fact of the matter is that Ian kind of wants to say _everything_ , even though that’s not necessarily true. He gets some stuff, it’s just… Most of it that he has a hard time with.

Mickey lets out a long breath. “Looks like you just finished imaginary numbers. Any idea what you’re doing next?”

“Uh…” Ian reaches for his textbook and flips it open, scanning the table of contents. “Radicals?” Whatever those are.

“You wanna go over those or what?” Mickey is flipping open a notebook to a clean page. His hand is resting on the table now, and Ian can finally read the letters across his knuckles—despite the angle, it’s easy to tell that they spell F U C K. Ian wonders what the story is there. “Christ, with this kind of attention span, no wonder you’re fucking failing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my attention span,” Ian snaps defensively, even though he has kind of been distracted. “And I don’t fucking know. What do you think?”

Mickey stills from where he’d been hunting around in his backpack, like he isn’t quite sure to people asking for his opinion.

“You don’t know shit about imaginary numbers,” Mickey finally says, looking over at Ian again. His glasses have started to slide down his nose. “And they’re going to fucking pop up again, so if you don’t get ‘em now, it’s just going to be a pain in your ass later. Probably best if we start there.” Ian nods, listening more intently to Mickey than he ever has to his math teacher. “Guessing you got homework, though?”

Ian doesn’t need to clarify that Mickey means math homework, although he almost does.

“Yeah, but it’s on the new stuff—“

“So we split our time. First half to going over the old shit, second half to learning the new shit. Sound like a plan?” Mickey levels Ian with a look, waiting for an answer, or another idea, or something, even though Ian doesn’t have one.

He means to say, “Sounds great,” but instead he blurts, “When Mandy said she had a nerdy older brother, you aren’t exactly what I pictured.”

Mickey’s face slackens in surprise, and Ian wonders why he felt the need to let his observations tumble out of his mouth unfiltered.

“You saying I don’t look smart?” Mickey asks, and the way he dips his head down makes it seem like he’s threatening Ian in someway. “Wouldn’t be the first one,” Mickey mumbles dismissively, looking down at his notebook and twirling his pencil in his fingers.

And Ian wonders how many people Mickey has had to prove wrong in his life.

“I’m not saying that,” Ian replies as he finally finds his words again. “I was just surprised, that’s all.” But now that Ian has seen Mickey Milkovich, he sort of can’t imagine him any other way. “Besides, smart comes in all shapes and sizes,” Ian hums, and Mickey looks back up at him, one eyebrow quirked as if he finds great amusement in the statement. “So imaginary numbers?” Ian prompts.

And that’s all it takes, really.

Any doubts Ian had had about having Mickey as a tutor disappear as Mickey breaks down every test question step by step, not taking short cuts but showing Ian where he could if he wanted (“when you fucking get better at this, otherwise don’t you dare take any fucking shortcuts”). He draws arrows and scribbles notes to help Ian remember _why_ he should be doing this or that, or what a certain question is asking for.

It’s like watching someone translate an alien language while simultaneously teaching it.

Ian thinks for a brief moment that Mickey would make a great teacher, except when his patience with Ian’s understanding runs lower and he starts snapping at him and calling him a dumb ass. Then again, given the state of the teachers on the South Side, Mickey might fit right in.

As good a tutor as Mickey proves to be, it doesn’t help Ian retain the information any faster. They go back over concepts again and again, Mickey pulling problems from his head and making Ian solve them until he understands how every type of equation works. Ian never knew math could be so _exhausting_.

But as many times as Ian gets frustrated and wants to quit because math is _stupid_ and _hard_ and _when is he ever going to use it anyway?_ , Mickey somehow manages to reign him back in. Sometimes it’s with goading, and sometimes it’s with something as unexpected as, “Don’t be an idiot, Gallagher. You got this. Now show me that you do.”

And the best (and weirdest) thing is how much Mickey seems to _like_ math. Ian knows he’d be able to get everything a lot faster if he didn’t get so caught up in Mickey’s passion for it. The way Mickey just seems to light up when he talks about it, and Ian wonders if he even knows how much his love for something reads so easily on his face. Wonders if he did, if he would do everything in his power to stop it.

Ian wonders if there’s anything in _his_ life that makes him feel that way.

“Shit,” Mickey mumbles while Ian is halfway through a problem (and he’s actually starting to get this, and it’s like _torture_ , but at least he’s getting it). “We’ve been going for over an hour already, and we haven’t even touched your homework yet.”

Ian’s stomach drops with something like disappointment, which is not the kind of thing someone should feel at the prospect of _not_ doing their homework.

“Do you have somewhere you gotta be?” Ian asks, chewing the corner of his bottom lip, and Mickey looks over at him in surprise.

“Don’t you?”

“I fucking asked you first,” Ian counters, with all the maturity of a ten-year-old. But he doesn’t have anywhere to be. It’s not like he has a curfew or something. Mickey doesn’t say anything, just stares at Ian expectantly and raises his eyebrows. “No, I don’t.”

“You wanna keep going?” Mickey doesn’t sound like he thinks Ian will.

“I mean, gotta do my homework, right? I’ll probably just fuck it all up on my own.” Ian cracks a smile.

“Yeah, probably,” Mickey agrees, and he grins in amusement. His knuckle moves to push his glasses back up his nose, a reflex movement.

It turns out radicals are a lot easier on Ian than imaginary numbers. Mickey runs him through the basics, and then leaves him to his homework, prompting Ian every few minutes to see if he’s still getting it (which steadily becomes more and more annoying until Ian reaches something he _doesn’t_ get and then he’s kind of glad that Mickey’s asking).

Ian’s attention lasts for another half hour before he let’s out a long-suffering groan.

“I think my head is going to fucking combust.” It shouldn’t be physically possible to absorb this much _math_. Mickey chuckles beside him.

“You done?”

“I still have fifteen problems left,” Ian moans as he lowers his face to the table, his forehead connecting with his textbook and robbing him of the satisfying _clunk_. He turns his head until he’s looking at Mickey. “I need a break. I think I’m going to fucking pass out if I do any more math right now.”

“That right?” Mickey’s grinning again, like he thinks Ian is the stupidest fucking creature he’s ever come across, and Ian thinks maybe he should be offended except that it… It doesn’t really _feel_ offensive to him for some reason. “If you need a break, take a break, tough guy. It’s your grade, not mine.”

“ _Ohmygod_ , why didn’t Mandy warn me that you were some sort of crazy Nazi tutor?” Ian whines into his textbook. “Give me like fifteen fucking minutes, christ.”

Mickey blessedly stays silent that time, and Ian closes his eyes and tries to let his mind go blank, like maybe that will make room for more fucking numbers.

God, he _really_ doesn’t like math.

“You falling asleep on me?”

Ian turns his face out of his book and mumbles a, “No.”

“Good, ‘cause—“

“Are you hungry?” Ian asks, still not lifting his head, and Mickey’s mouth flounders wordlessly around the end of the sentence that he didn’t get to say.

“What?”

“I’m fucking starving,” Ian says, at the same moment that he realizes he is. “I know Mandy like threatened you or some shit to not charge me for this, so let me buy you a slice of pizza and a soda or something.” Kind of like a date. Ian wouldn’t mind it being a date. If Mickey is into that sort of thing. Ian wonders momentarily if there’s something morally ambiguous in wanting to fuck your tutor, and then remembers that he fucked his boss and there’s really nothing more morally ambiguous than _that_ (well, except like, _murder_ ).

“You trying to butter me up so I go easy on you, Gallagher?” Mickey quirks an eyebrow, and Ian furrows his eyebrows.

“Wait, would that work?” He hadn’t even considered it.

“Fuck no.” Mickey pauses. “Not with pizza.”

And suddenly Ian needs to know what butters Mickey Milkovich up.

(Not in a sexy way. Or maybe in a sexy way. Maybe both ways.)

“Well fuck, there goes my master plan.” Ian grins, and Mickey stares down at him, muttering to himself and rolling his eyes up to the ceiling.

“Will you fucking get off the table? The fuck am I supposed to talk to you like that?”

“You don’t seem to be having any trouble,” Ian points out, and considers staying there just to push Mickey’s buttons, but it’s not really conducive to pizza. Fuck, he really wants pizza now. He lifts himself up, rubbing at his neck where it started to hurt, and Mickey watches him. “So. Pizza?”

“What about your homework?” Mickey’s mouth draws into a skeptical line.

“We can’t finish it over pizza? Come _on_ , I’m buying. Free fucking pizza, man. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever, calm down, Raggedy-Ann,” Mickey mumbles, starting to clean up his stuff, and Ian happily follows suit. Ian has no problem with libraries, but after being in one for nearly two hours, he is happy as _fuck_ to be getting out of there. And the walk over to the pizza place three blocks over will give Ian a chance to not think about math, and maybe get to know Mickey a little better.

Which is absolutely the plan, until they take one step outside and Mickey asks, “What’s an imaginary number?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“You wanted a fucking tutor, Gallagher, and you got one. Now what’s an imaginary number?”

“Seriously, you’re fucking a Nazi. A math Nazi. An imaginary number Nazi.”

“Still doesn’t sound like a fucking answer to me.”

“For fuck’s sake, it’s a number that gives you a negative answer when you fucking square it.”

Ian’s frustration is almost worth the smile Mickey gives him for getting it right.

Almost.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/96687183585/imaginary-numbers)


End file.
